


Dubious and Questionable: Joseph Anton

by lotsofwords



Series: Dubious and Questionable [2]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Disturbing Themes, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Post Reichenbach, Pre-Slash, Sexual References, We'll see how things progress, hopefully
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-28 14:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotsofwords/pseuds/lotsofwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irene is getting sick of being dead. Molly isn't too keen on it either, seeing as Irene has taken to haunting her. Specifically her work place. Throw in a GP with some unfriendly fan-mail, a dead American convict, and a suspicious Sally Donovan and this week is not shaping out like planned. Sherlock's help sure would be good right about now. Too bad he started this all when he lent Irene a hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Told you I would write a sequel. Too bad that work and contributing to society seem to be the kryptonite to fanfiction writing. Here we go.

Irene hated coming back to London. Every time she did, it reminded her how much she missed the city.

Not that Perth wasn’t lovely in summer, or Gdańsk wasn’t beautiful at night, but London was, well, _London_. She had been to so many countries over the years, but no matter what she always found herself returning to the city that was the closest thing she had to a home.

Unfortunately, since her untimely death, Irene had to make a point of not visiting the city as much as she would have liked. The risk may seem worth it at first, but London used to be her old stomping ground. People tended to remember Irene’s face, particularly if it had ever hovered above them while they were bound to a head-board.

Irene, however, had been venturing into London more and more frequently over the past few months. This was, partially, due to a certain consulting detective. It turned out the phrase “Remember the time I saved you from being beheaded?” is the ultimate I.O.U card.

Not that Irene minded all that much. Being dead left the infamous Miss Adler fewer chances to misbehave than she used to have. She made her own fun, of course, in her own quiet way, but Sherlock’s little assignments were always that little extra thrilling.

And of course there was a certain Molly Hooper to consider.

True, their first meeting hadn’t been ideal. Irene hated to admit that when she had first laid eyes on Molly the girl looked like the love-child of a kitten and a Japanese cartoon. But Molly had surprised her, showing some grit beneath that fluffy pink surface, and now Irene now the only think that took Irene by surprise about Molly was how Molly still surprised her.

 _The woman works in a morgue, Adler._ Irene occasionally liked to remind herself. _Underestimate her at your peril._

Irene was aware she hadn’t given Molly the best impression of herself that night either. Irene had believed for many years that most of the rules and morals of modern society were social constructs. “Girls shouldn’t kiss other girls.” “The clothes you wear show that you have self-respect” “Theft and extortion are crimes against the crown” and so on. Sometimes Irene forgot that other people still lived by those stringent self-imposed rules, and Molly was one of them. But Molly was the forgiving type, and Irene knew better than to try and quash someone else’s beliefs.

As stated, their first meeting wasn’t ideal, but it had turned out well enough in the end (no one had died anyway). Since then, whenever Irene had found herself back in Merry Old England, she had always made a point calling in of her favourite pathologist. Sometimes it was a small job of Sherlock’s that needed both their expertise. Sometime Irene needed a little assistance with a task of her own. And sometimes Irene just wanted a meal with a bright, pretty, kind woman who called her by her real name.

Regardless of the reasoning behind their continued acquaintance, Molly always seemed pleased to see Irene. The first couple of times they had joined forces Molly had spent all her time talking about Sherlock. Asking where he was, what he was doing whether he was safe. Irene had expected it and always felt oddly dissatisfied with herself when she didn’t have any new information. Holmes was always one to keep things close to his chest.

But over the three months since they had met, Molly’s questions slowly began to float more towards Irene herself. What was she doing in London? Was she safe? Did she need anywhere to stay? Had she been doing anything exciting lately? It was always when Irene was half-way through some tale about that misunderstanding she had with a Python smuggler in Dubai, or how she had stowed away on a cargo-plane in Chilli, that she would realise what she was saying and wonder how Molly had managed to pull the story out of her.

And sweet Molly Hooper, shy Molly Hooper, cat loving Molly Hooper, would come back with some of the most detailed, gory and fascinating stories of her own. Like the one about being elbow deep in a seventy year old man, and finding a toy fire-engine he swallowed when he was nine; or which poisons caused the victim to feel euphoria before it killed them, or how to crack open a rib cage, …and then Molly would realise what she was talking about, stutter, mumble and change the topic.

Irene would find herself lying awake in the middle of the night wondering _how_ Molly made disassembling a corpse sound adorable.

Molly Hooper and London were becoming irreversibly linked in Irene’s mind. And Irene found she was missing London more and more.

So when Irene got a text from Sherlock saying:

HAVE A FEW THINGS THAT I NEED DELIVERED. ONE TO 403 BROOK STREET AND THE OTHER TO MOLLY. BUSY?

-SH

Irene didn’t hesitate in texting back:

NOT AT ALL.

-IA

 ...

Irene smiled as she entered the café – Molly’s Café, as she had come to know it. Whenever they met it was almost always there – and cast her eyes around in search of Molly. It had been raining for the past week and the small space was crowded full of people, desperate for caffeine and to keep dry. Irene tucked the manila envelope under her arm. Sherlock had told her expressly that it was for Molly’s eyes only. Which was the reason why Irene was going to make certain she was standing over Molly’s shoulder when the envelope was opened.

She caught a glimpse of Molly sitting at a small table near the window. But she also caught a glimpse of the red-haired woman who was sitting across from her.

Irene felt a frown settle on her face. Molly was smart. Molly was cautious. Molly just wouldn’t drag anyone along with her to their private lunches. But the red-headed lady was chatting away with Molly as though they had known each other for years.

Then Irene noticed the hard line of Molly’s lips and how her hands were clenched in a white-knuckled grip along the seam of her jacket.

_Ah. An uninvited guest._

Irene’s mood instantly lifted.

She adjusted the strap of her handbag and strode towards Molly. The minute the pathologist laid eyes on her, Irene could see the relief flood across her face. Molly shot to her feet, not noticing (or not caring) that she sloshed coffee on the table as she did.

‘You’re here!’ Molly grabbed Irene into a tight hug. Irene found herself hugging back.

‘Who’s your friend?’ Irene whispered in Molly’s ear.

‘Call an exorcist.’ Molly hissed, but she didn’t have time to elaborate. A hand landed on Molly’s shoulder and pulled her back. The red-haired woman stepped forward; seemingly oblivious to how rude it was to break up a hug between two women, one of whom she didn’t even know. She held out her hand to Irene, with a practised smile slathered on her face.

‘Hi.’ The stranger’s voice was low and slick. ‘You must be the friend Dr. Hooper was talking about.’

Irene dropped her gaze to the proffered hand. She stared at it. Her gaze returned to the stranger’s expectant face. Irene’s own face didn’t change a bit. It remained unimpressed.

Her mind on the other hand, was doing the calculations.

 _She called Molly, “Dr. Hooper” – Wrong – Molly is a surgeon – She went back to being_ Miss _Hooper – Not close enough to Molly to know that basic fact - Not close enough to Molly to use her first name – Molly always goes by her first name, even at work – So not someone from St. Bathes – But the handshake suggests a professional relationship – She knows Molly’s got a background in medicine– Molly’s not wearing her lab-coat or any outward signs of her occupation – Must have looked Molly up before-hand. – Researched her? - Has an overly friendly manner – Trying hard to be likeable – Too hard - Trying to get me on side in the hopes it will rub off on Molly? – Why does she need Molly to like her? – Why doesn’t Molly like her? – Molly’s shy but friendly – Not the type to snub anyone – Molly’s told her that she was meeting “a friend” but no name – Barest possible details – Molly doesn’t trust her -  Probably used me as an excuse to get out of talking to this woman – “Sorry, but I’m meeting a friend for lunch” – This woman isn’t backing down – Forced her way into our reunion uninvited – Needs something only Molly can give her, or she would have tried someone else – What could she need? – Molly’s not rich – Molly only has a few close friends and is not in a position of influence – Molly has access to confidential crime related information – What is the most important  crime Molly’s been attached to?_

_Of  course. Sherlock._

_This red-headed woman is nosey, intrusive, determined, unabashed and untrustworthy. She also wants to know about Sherlock Holmes._

_A reporter._

A reporter who was about to stare down the barrel of an overly exuberant, annoying Californian.

Irene grinned, as she took the reporters hand and shook it, vigorously. ‘Well, hi there!’ Irene’s west coast accent was flawless, if a little too loud for such a crowded and cosy space. ‘Molls, I didn’t know you were bringing a friend with you!’

‘Neither did I.’ Molly muttered. Irene shot her a smile. Molly caught it an instantly relaxed. While Molly was a terrible liar, she was fantastic at playing along.

‘Well, as my mother used to say, the more the merrier! Sorry, I haven’t introduced myself, I’m Arlene Ride! What was your name again?’

‘Kitty. Kitty Riley.’

_Kitty Riley – “Death of a Fake Genius” by star-reporter Kitty Riley – “Richard Brooke: The Storyteller’s Tale” by Kitty Riley – “Doctor Death! Did John Watson Know about Holmes’ Crimes?” by Kitty Riley – “Lestrade in the Hot Seat: Internal Inquiry to be held into Holmes’ Police Liaison”  by Kitty Riley – Milking her one big story for every cent – got lucky once, hasn’t the skill to replicate her success – the Sherlock well is running dry – Molly is her last resort._

‘Kitty Riley? I think I heard the name somewhere before!’

‘I’m a reporter for The Sun.’

‘Oh yes! Yes of course!’ Irene’s eyes lit up. ‘You wrote that stuff about the detective  guy! Sherringford something! ’

‘Sherlock Holmes.’ Kitty said and leaned back in her chair with all the air of a collage professor who had written a dozen dissertations on the subject. Something about the gesture grated on Irene, but she channelled that annoyance into an equally irritating high pitch squeal.

‘Oh this is so exciting! We loved the story over in The States! I’ve never met anyone famous before. Well, except for Donny Osmond but I was twelve at the time and I don’t think that really counts does it?’ Irene laughed loudly at her own joke and even managed to get a snort into the middle of it. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Molly just stare at her in utter fascination. Kitty laughed too, even though the joke wasn’t funny.

‘Well, I’m not sure if I’d count as a celebrity.’ Kitty waved her hand. ‘I’m just a woman who hungers for the truth.’

Irene managed to stop a genuine laugh for escaping. ‘You’re like a real life Lois Lane, Ms Riley.’

‘Oh, thank you dear. Now all I have to do is find my superman.’ Kitty burst into cackled and Irene joined her. She quickly sat down next to Molly.

‘This is amazing. I was, like, literally talking about the detective thing just the other day with another friend. Settle a bet for me. Why did you call him “A Fake Genius”? I mean, like, he was really a smart detective.’

Kitty shook her head in a patronising way. ‘I think you misunderstand. Sherlock Holmes didn’t really solve those crimes. He _did them._ Then he pretended to work them out and set up poor Richard Brooke to take the blame.’

Irene frowned, as though this entire situation was ever-so complicated for her tiny mind to comprehend. ‘No, but yeah. I got that. But he was still, like, a genius, right? You would have to be to fool, like, all of Scotland Yard into thinking you were solving those crimes.’

Kitty paused. She’d obviously never thought about it that way.

‘Well yeah.’

‘And trick everyone else who he solve crimes for. And poor Mr. Brooke as well. You would have to be super duper clever to con a guy into taking the blame for your crimes, even if they guy wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. You know what I mean?’

Kitty leaned forward, her voice more ridged. ‘But he wasn’t a genius crime solver, was he? You could argue that he was a criminal genius, but by choosing to be a criminal it proves he wasn’t a genius.’

Irene fought to keep her face under control. This woman had no idea that she was actually talking to a criminal genius – a reformed one, maybe but Irene still took pride in her work. Molly’s eyes were wider than normal. Irene could tell Molly knew exactly what she was thinking about Kitty Riley’s comment, and was scrambling to think of a way to end this conversation and soon. Irene squeezed Molly’s hand under the table. The pathologist relaxed. Kitty didn’t have picked up on it, but then again Kitty was nowhere near as perceptive as Molly. Besides the reporter was continuing her argument.

‘… And if he was really a genius he would have known that he couldn’t get away with the whole charade forever. Believe me, I met the man.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, and you have never seen a bigger ego.’

‘But it was kind of justifiable, right? Like, he was a big time hero for a while. Even us yanks knew all about his spooky powers.’

Molly’s face turned downward suddenly. Irene knew she was trying not to laugh. Both of them could imagine the look of indignation on Sherlock’s face if he ever heard someone call his precious deductive skills “spooky powers”.

Kitty was nowhere near laughing. In truth her face had become sterner and sterner throughout the conversation.

‘Yes, but none of it was based on anything real. It was all faked to help him get famous.’

Irene furrowed her eyebrows. ‘Then… why didn’t he just, like you know, be a detective.’

Kitty looked at Irene as though she was trying to figure out whether she actually had a mental handicap. ‘What?’

‘Look.’ Irene shifted on her chair. ‘This Sherlock dude wants to solve crimes and be all famous for it, and stuff, right? So he works out how to do a bunch of crimes and then he pretends to solve them so he can take all the glory.’

‘I just said that.’ Kitty snapped.

‘But if he was, like, smart enough to figure out how to make up crimes to solve – fake crimes that are good enough to fool _everyone, everywhere –_ wouldn’t he be smart enough to just solve real ones? I don’t know about you but I’d think that’d be a lot less hassle doing it that way.’

Kitty’s mouth hung open a fraction, her eyes narrowed. Irene could see her filing through the story she had created about Sherlock Holmes in her mind and seeing some of the cracks in her theory. Irene already had a bunch more in line for the reporter, and she was keen to let the dismantling begin.

Lucky for Kitty, her phone rang at that moment. She looked down at it. Irene could just about read “mother” as the header for caller ID. Kitty scooped it up and stood.

‘Oh, I’m sorry. That’s work. I’d better go. It was nice talking to you both. Doctor Hooper. Miss er… Miss.’

Kitty Riley pulled her handbag over her shoulder and fled.

As soon as the café door shut behind the reporter, Molly heaved a sigh.

‘ _Thank you.’_

‘I’m guessing you’ve been receiving a lot of unwanted attention from her?’ Irene said, moving to Kitty’s former seat.

‘You have no idea.’ Molly rubbed her eye with the heel of her hand. ‘She’s like a terrier with a sock.’

‘How long has she been at you for an interview?’

‘I don’t know. Three weeks? Four? Ever since Lestrade got a restraining order on John Watson’s behalf.’

‘She needed fresh meat then.’ Irene picked up the menu and skimmed her eyes over it. ‘Why didn’t DCI Lestrade get you one as well?’

Molly shrugged. ‘Lestrade doesn’t have the same sway around the yard as he used to. Besides he probably didn’t think of it.’

‘He forgot you, you mean.’ Irene flopped the menu down on the table, deciding that there was nothing she wanted. She was inexplicably irritated.

‘No.’ The pathologist fiddled with the lip of her coffee mug. ‘It just didn’t occur to him in the first place.’

For a brief second Irene fully understood why Sherlock always prefixed “Scotland Yard” with the words “That bunch of idiots down at”. And you are perfectly fine with that?’ she asked.

Molly’s next sentence pushed Irene from irritated to angry. It wouldn’t have been nearly so provoking for Irene if it weren’t for Molly’s tone of complete acceptance.

‘It’s not like it’s the first time it’s happened.’

Irene felt like hugging and slapping Molly at the same time. She hadn’t known the pathologist long but Irene liked to think she knew here well. And the last word she would use to describe a woman who loved cats, sliced cadavers, wore pink and pigtails, dated criminals, and faked deaths was the word “forgettable”. Irene was about to say so, when Molly cut her off.

‘So what are you doing back in London? Are you here because of… you know who?’

‘Auguste? In a way, but this is mostly for my benefit.’ Irene took the manila envelope on the table. ‘But this is from him. It’s “for you eyes only.”’

‘Oh. So you want to be there when I open it.’

‘Naturally.’

Molly grinned. ‘I can’t believe he’s got you playing postman pat for him. Shouldn’t he be giving you something a tad more important than this?’

Irene crossed her legs and gave Molly a one-sided smile. ‘Oh Molly, so many assumptions in one sentence.’

Molly, who had been fiddling with the envelope, looked up at Irene. ‘Oh? Like what?’

‘Firstly, you assume that I’m only doing this to help Sherlock out, and I guarantee you that isn’t the case. I told him after the little fiasco that was O’Brian’s party we were even.’

‘Does he know about the hundreds of thousands of pounds that miraculously appeared in your bank account that night?’

Irene couldn’t help but grin. Molly had been so disapproving of her actions that night. If Molly was now able to make cheeky references to it over a cup of coffee, then it was a sign that the pathologist was as comfortable around Irene as Irene was around her. Irene lifted her chin.

‘I don’t see how it’s any of his business.’ she said. ‘Secondly, if I thought it was trivial I wouldn’t have bothered with it; and I certainly wouldn’t have handed it over to you. Sherlock may like to think he’s in change but he’s not your boss and he definitely isn’t mine. Something that I’ve had to remind him of on a number of occasions. And thirdly… well it gave us a good excuse to catch up.’

Molly looked slightly confused for a second, but then her expression softened. ‘I enjoy catching up with you too, Irene.’

Irene thanked the god of good timing sending the waitress with her coffee. (Had she ordered a coffee? No. It must have been Kitty’s. Ah well. Waste not, want not.) Irene prided herself on keeping her emotions off her face, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to let something as sappy as Molly Hooper returning a compliment make her slip up.

‘So how long are you in London for?’ Molly asked excitedly. ‘Are you staying here for a few days or are you about to jet off to another glamorous destination?’

Irene scoffed. ‘Definitely not. I’m hoping to stay in London for as long as possible. I am in no hurry to leave.’

‘Why?’

 ‘Exotic destinations all seem to blur after a while.’

‘Lost your wanderlust?’

‘Either that or I’m just homesick.’

‘Oh.’ Molly frowned and rubbed the back of her neck. ‘Must be hard, being on the run all the time. Are they always after you; Jim’s men?’

‘Not as much as they used to be. The majority or Moriarty’s little clan thinks I’m dead and the ones that have their suspicious are a little preoccupied with a certain consulting detective. That’s one thing I love about Sherlock. He really knows how to draw attention.’

‘Then, if they aren’t looking for you, why not stay in London.’

Irene stirred her coffee. ‘Hide in plain site? It’s not as easy as it seems, honey. Besides it takes a lot of connections to get a new identity off the ground. It’s the kind of thing that draws attention and I can’t afford that.’

Molly finished off her coffee and set the mug down. ‘You’ll work it out.’ It wasn’t a placating show of sympathy. Irene could tell Molly thought she would be able to get her life together without a shadow of doubt.

Irene’s “Thanks” back wasn’t nearly so certain.

‘You will! And if you need help in any way, I’m here.’

‘Really?’ Irene smirked and lent back in her chair. ‘And how exactly were you planning to help?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Molly admitted. ‘But I never faked anyone’s death before Sherlock’s and I did pretty well with that, didn’t I?’

Irene smiled and nodded. ‘Very true. Come on. I’m itching to see what goodies Santa has sent you.’ Molly picked up the envelope and tucked it under her arm.

‘Fine, but it’s probably best we do this back at Saint Bathes. You coming?’

‘Just a minute.’ Irene reached underneath the table searching for something. ‘Let me just get the tape recorder Ms. Riley left behind.’

‘She _what?’_

Irene pulled out the tape recorder and peeled away the duct tape that had been holding it in place. ‘Sneaky one, isn’t she? Not too bright, but sneaky. Come on. On the way to Saint Bathes, were going to have the most boring conversation known to man.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The choice to make Molly Hooper a surgeon came from wellingtongoose's article The Semantics of Healthcare; found here ->http://wellingtongoose.tumblr.com/post/31926026103/semantics4  
> Fantastic read for those interested.


	2. Chapter 2

‘Am I allowed to be in here?’ Irene asked, swivelling on one of Saint Bathes’ dilapidated stools. The whole place practically screamed “authorised personnel only.” Irene didn’t care at all about those sorts of regulations, but she was mindful this was Molly’s workspace. She didn’t want to get her into trouble. Molly didn’t look up as she carefully tore at the lip of the envelope.

‘In the labs? Sure. It’s not like you’re down in the morgue or anything. Besides this is a medical school as well. After last year, when the first years let those piglets loose, no one is going to kick up a fuss about you.’

‘Piglets?’

‘Yep. Two greased up piglets with the numbers “1” and “3” painted on them. The poor cleaning staff spent all day trying to track down the non-existent number “2”.’

 ‘Ah, of course. Good to know that university hasn’t changed much since my day.’

‘Really?’ asked Molly. ‘What did you study?’

‘Psychology.’

Molly stopped. ‘You’re a psychologist?’

‘That’s what my degree says.’

‘How come you never mentioned it?’

‘I never practised. I got into The Scene to try and paid the bills while I was a poor struggling student. By the end of my degree I was making far more money and enjoying myself far more as a Pro than I ever could listening to tax consultants talk about their Oedipal complex.’

Molly finally got the envelope open. ‘Why am I not surprised?’

Irene slid off her stool with her trademark grace and wandered over to the bench where Molly stood. ‘Being a psychologist and a Domminatrix have far more in common than you would think, honey. Now that I think of it, they’re not too different to what you do. We both enjoy opening someone up and seeing how they tick. Now are you going to tell me what’s in the envelope, or am I going to die from suspense.’

Irene noticed Molly’s nose crinkle as she stared down at the pages in front of her. ‘What is it?’

‘I have no idea. They seem to be about a guy called Phillip Cartwright? You ever heard of him?’

‘Can’t say that I have.’ Irene took one of the pages. It was a photocopy of a newspaper clipping.

‘”Infamous gang leader to face the death penalty.”’ Irene read. ‘”After finally receiving the guilty verdict, following a five year court battle, Phillip “Cutthroat” Cartwright will be executed on the 19th of December. Having, against legal advice, waved his right to an appeal, Cartright has been rumoured to have chosen the electric chair as his preferred method of demise over the more popular - and arguably more humane - lethal injection.”’

‘Are you serious?’ Molly screwed up her face. ‘He actually picked the chair?’

‘That’s what it says. So what? He was going to die either way.’

‘Yes, but when you have a lethal injection there is little to no chance of your head catching on fire.’

Irene’s head shot up in disgust. ‘What!? Really? That’s appalling.’

‘Afraid so.  But that hardly ever happens. ‘

‘I would hope so.’

‘He would most likely just have charred bits where the current ran through him. And maybe broken fingers from the muscle spasms. Or burst eyeballs.’

Molly looked up at Irene. The woman had a horrified expression carved into her beautiful face.

‘Too much information?’

‘Just a little. Suddenly being beheaded doesn’t seem like such a bad way to go.’ Irene cleared her throat and continued to read. ‘”Cartright, who had been convicted of armed larceny, homicide, aggravated assault, manslaughter, drug trafficking, possession of stolen goods…” blah, blah, blah, here we go, “…has also surprised the media with his announcement that, after his execution, he will be donating his body to medical science.” Well that’s… lovely, I suppose.’

‘Hardly.’ said Molly. ‘All the best bits will be fried.’

Irene dropped the sheet on the table and opened the envelope wider to get a better look inside.

‘Did Sherlock send anything else?’ Molly asked.

‘Just a minute. I think there may be more in here. Hello?’ Irene dug her hand into the very bottom of the envelope and pulled out a small glass slide. There was a spot of blood spread between two glass plates.  ‘I think this one is definitely for you, honey.’

Molly carefully took it out of Irene’s hands. ‘It’s a blood culture.’

‘One guesses whose blood culture. And I think I can feel more goodies in here.’ Irene pulled out a hair sample, three plastic containers with different swabs inside and a smaller envelope filled with photographs. All the photographs were grainy Polaroid’s of someone on an autopsy table. Irene knew that they must have been photos of Cartright, but the man in the photo of the newspaper clipping looked nothing like the deflated, gray-faced thing on the slab.

‘This must have been all the samples they collected during Cartright’s autopsy.’ said Molly.

‘Indeed. The question is why would Sherlock need you to have Cartright’s samples?’

‘More than that, why would Sherlock give us a bunch of records on an American man who was executed in,” Molly held a page up higher, ‘2009? Maybe he was innocent and Sherlock wants us to prove it.’

‘Or maybe he did a few naughty things on this side of the pond and Sherlock wants us to clear up a cold case. ‘

‘He didn’t tell you anything else?’ Molly turned her face to Irene. She shook her head.

‘Just to deliver this package to you and another to 403 Brook Street.’

A door swung open from behind them and both women turned around. Standing in the doorway was a curly haired woman in a sleek, grey coat.

‘Hey Molly, I…’ The woman noticed Irene for the first time. ‘Oh sorry. I’m interrupting.’

‘No Sally, you’re right.’ Molly grabbed all the papers and shoved them back into the envelope, not caring if she creased them. She looked to Irene with an expression that screamed _distract her while I hide all the dead convict’s papers._

Irene stalked between the newcomer and the evidence on the table. ‘Molly,’ she called over her shoulder ‘Are you going to introduce me?’

‘What? Oh sorry. Rude of me. This is Sergeant Sally Donovan. She’s DCI Lestrade’s right hand man, I mean woman, I mean… you get the idea.’

Sally smiled at Irene and held out her hand. Irene shook it.

‘Dr. Renae Lider, forensic psychology.’ Molly flipped around in horror. Irene wanted to giggle as the colour in Molly’s face drained away. She liked the pathologist, she really did, but Molly was also delicious to tease. The police woman remained oblivious.

‘Oh, really?’ The sergeant looked genuinely fascinated. ‘What’s your speciality?’

Irene flipped her fringe away from her face. ‘Criminal profiling. Clichéd, I know.’

‘Yeah, but really interesting. Do you work with Miss Hooper then, Doctor?’

‘Oh no.’ Irene moved back and snaked one arm around Molly’s shoulders, before leaning her head against the pathologist’s. ‘We’re just friends from high school. I just dropped by to chat.’

Donovan tilted her head to the side with a hum. Irene could tell she was mentally asking just how “friendly” she and Molly had been back in high school. Irene had to admit, she had done this deliberately. What was the harm in having a little fun?

Molly didn’t seem so keen in inviting the same speculations. She coughed and gently pulled out of Irene’s grip. ‘You wanted something Sally.’

‘What? Oh yeah, we need you’re help down at 403 Brook Street. There hasn’t been a murder or anything –as far as we know - but it’s definitely something we need a pathologist for.’

Irene’s smirk fell as she heard the sergeant repeat the same address she had visited just an hour before. Molly recognised it too.

’403 Brook Street.’ Molly’s voice was higher than normal. ‘What happened at 403 Brook Street?’

‘Some sicko left a package there for the owner, a GP called…’ Donovan pulled out her notepad and flicked through it. ‘Doctor Trevelyan. He lives on the second floor while his practise is on the first, so it not only freaked him out but everyone in his waiting room. Not the best for business.’

‘Wait… Doctor Percy Trevelyan?’ Molly moved to get her coat that was hanging over the back of one of the stools.

‘Yes that’s right? Another friend?’ Sally asked, looking at Irene pointedly.

‘Yeah. A bit. He was in the year below me in medical school. Everyone knew him. Sort of a celebrity among the med students.’ Molly pulled on her coat. ‘You don’t mind if I catch up with you later?’ Molly asked Irene. Irene frowned. She was itching to follow them to the crime scene but she had a feeling that would be pressing her luck. Irene would have to do her own little investigation while Molly was busy lending the police a hand.

‘No, I completely understand. I’ll ring you later and see if you have time for dinner.’

Molly smiled and picked up her bag to follow Sally out the door. But before the two women left, Irene’s curiosity got the better of her.

‘What was in the package? Sorry to ask but I have to know.’

The police woman tucked her notebook back in her pocket. ‘I probably shouldn’t say, but then again it’s going to be all over the news anyway.’ Sally paused and gave in. ‘It was a human hand.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Irene's characterisation in this chapter (and her background in psychology) is based around Eldritchhorrors' meta piece called "A Meta on Professional Dominatrices by a former Pro Dominatrix". Can be found here -> http://archiveofourown.org/works/317217   
> Everyone writing an Irene Adler fic should read this. Particularly seeing as everyone seems to think Irene's a prostitute.


	3. Chapter 3

WHAT KIND OF LUNATIC SENDS A HUMAN HAND THROUGH THE POST?

-IA

Irene was sitting by herself in the Barbican Library, trying desperately to find out more information on the Cartright case. Most of the information she had been able to find was on the internet but it didn’t seem very in depth. Either the case hadn’t captured the public attention, and the reporters had lost interest halfway through, or there was some sort of court mandate to keep the more juicy facts out of the public eye. All Irene had been able to establish was that Cartright hadn’t been alone when the cops had finally caught up with him. Three other gang members were captured at the same time, but only Cartright had received the death penalty. It was mostly dull recounts of the trial, however and didn’t give Irene any insight into what exactly was going on.

Irene’s phone vibrated on the desk in front of her. She picked it up.

I THOUGHT YOU PROMISED NOT TO LOOK IN THE PACKAGES.

-SH

Irene tapped away.

I DIDN’T. I JUST HAPPENED TO BE THERE WHEN THE COPS ASKED MOLLY TO HELP THEM INVESTIGATE. DON’T GO SKIRTING AROUND THE ISSUE. WHY DID YOU MAKE ME DROP OFF A HAND TO A GP? WHAT HAS THIS DOCTOR’S CONNECTION WITH CARTRIGHT?

-IA

HE DOESN’T HAVE ONE. THAT’S THE POINT.

-SH

WHAT IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?

-IA

NOTHING.

-SH

WHAT DID TREVELYAN DO TO DESERVE A DISMEMBERED BODY PART THEN? FORGET TO WARN UP HIS HANDS FOR YOUR PROSTATE EXAM?

-IA

THIS IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS ANYMORE IRENE. YOU’RE DONE. LEAVE IT WITH MOLLY AND GET OUT OF LONDON.

-SH

Irene pursed her lips. She didn’t mind when Sherlock asked her to do things (as long as they benefited or amused her in some way) but it was another thing entirely when he though that he could bark orders at her and she would hop to it. Who did he think she was? John Watson?

WHILE I NORMALLY LOVE IT WHEN YOU GET ALL DOMENEERING JUNIOR, I’M FINDING IT A BIT OF A TURN OFF TODAY. ALSO IF YOU DIDN’T WANT ME INVOLVED YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE GOTTEN ME INVOLVED.

-IA

Irene tossed her phone on the table and continued her search. Maybe she was going about this the wrong way. Maybe she shouldn’t be focusing on Cartright. Maybe Doctor Trevelyan was the person she should be investigating.

To Facebook!

The internet age was a strange thing. When did people first decide that they needed to announce to everyone, from their grandmother to their pub- buddies, that they just got their dog neutered?

Her phone binged again. Irene knew it was a sarcastic text from Sherlock telling her to leave London again, as though he was the king of the city. She didn’t even bother to look at it.

Trevelyan was so boring. Not married. No kids. Dead father. Mother and one sister who now live in Spain. Went to London University. Worked at King's College Hospital for a bit but now owns his own practise. Bit young to do that, but then again he seemed to be a bit of a medical genius.

Another ding.  An old fat man in a tatty coat, who was reading a book at another desk, gave Irene the stink eye. He could go sod off and Sherlock could too.

Doctor Percy Trevelyan; Winner of _The Trainees' Committee Young Medical Authors Prize_ \- 1999. Winner of _The Norah Schuster Essay Prize_ for his essay “ _The treatment of Neurology Disorders in 19 th century London” – _2001\. _Gordon Holmes Prize - Clinical Neurosciences Section –_ 2002\. _Clinical Neurosciences Section President's prize_ – 2002.

All very smart, but these were the awards of someone who went to high-level theoretical neurology. Not a GP. What made him change his mind?

The phone started ring. Bloody hell Sherlock.

Irene picked up the phone, giving the old man a stare that screamed _Yes. I am answering my phone in a public library. I dare you to complain._ She pressed the answer button.

‘I thought my last message was quite clear, Sherlock.’

‘Pardon?’ Molly’s confused voice crackled through the phone.

‘Oh sorry, honey. I thought you were… well you know who I thought you were.’

‘Um… Renae?’ Molly coughed. Someone on the other end was obviously listening. It was the same alias as before so odds were that policewoman was nearby. ‘I need to ask you a favour.’

‘What sort of favour, Molly?’ Irene kept her voice low. Molly’s tone sounded less than enthused.

‘You remember Sergeant Donovan from before?’

‘Yes, I do. Young. Ambitious-looking. Seems like she doesn’t put up with other people’s crap easily. ’

Molly’s voice was already quiet but it grew quieter and quieter as she tried to explain. ‘That’s her. Well… she mentioned your… err expertise… to DI Lestrade and… he thought it may… like to… assist with the case.’

‘Expertise?’ Irene had the feeling that the detective inspector wasn’t in the market for someone to blindfold him and make him crawl on his hands and knees to the bed.

‘You know.’ said Molly ‘Forensic psychology. But I told them you were really busy and that you probably didn’t have the time…’

Irene leant her elbows. They wanted her to go and see the crime scene. She wasn’t using her charms, or blackmailing skills or worming her way in with guile or cunning. The _London Police_ were asking _her_ to come and give them a hand. It seemed that the universe was smiling down on Irene which, for her, was a nice change of pace. But super cautious, super nervous, super wary Molly Hooper didn’t seem enthusiastic. At all. ‘Molly, are you trying to get me out of coming to your crime scene because you’re afraid they’ll work out I’m not really a Forensic Psychologist?’

‘Yes.’ Molly sounded relieved.

‘And you think that it’s likely that I would turn down a chance to find out exactly what’s Sherlock’s playing at?’

‘No?’ Molly’s voice faulted. ‘But I thought… because we get on and everything you would… as a favour…’

‘Let me put it this way. Remember when you described people’s eyeballs popping and heads catching on fire this morning?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Consider this pay-back.’

‘Ire- Renae! This is my job! These are people I have to work with everyday. ’ Molly hissed.

‘I know. I won’t get you in any trouble, honey. I just want a quick poke around, to see what’s going on.’

‘Please don’t do this just because you’re angry with you-know-who.’

‘I don’t have a clue what you’re insinuating. I’m just coming to a crime scene to help out my dear friend and possible high-school sweetheart.’

‘What about your career as a postal worker?’ Molly asked.

That was a point. She was the one who knocked on the door and left the package on the doorstep. She was fairly confident no one had seen her but she couldn’t be sure. It was always a bad idea to return to the scene of the crime.

‘All the more reason for me to come. I helped start this mess, I might as well help finish it. I’ll see you in twenty minutes.’

Molly groaned. ‘Okay. Fine. But please don’t… don’t…’

‘Don’t what?’

‘Get me fired.’

‘Don’t be so worried Molly. If it all goes belly up, I know a lot of women in the “adult industry.” I’ll put in a good word for you.’

‘You’re not funny.’

‘I beg to differ. Bye honey.’

Irene hung up the phone. It dinged again. Another text from Sherlock.

He’d spent months ignoring her texts after they had first met. Irene figured she may as well return the favour.


	4. Chapter 4

Irene would never admit it to a living soul, but she felt a small thrill run through her when the uniformed officer lifted the yellow tape, to let her in to the restricted area. She had never actually been to a crime scene before. Okay that was a lie. She'd been to plenty. She had _made_ plenty. But she had never been to one afterward, when the met had blocked off the area and were hurrying off curious onlookers. It was a busy street, mostly full of shops and department stores. However this little 19th century building had remained fairly untouched. That is until Dr. Trevelyan got a hold of it, stripped out the bottom floor, replacing all of the quaint Victorian aesthetic with a sterile, professional look. Why Trevelyan had bothered to convert it into a GP's office was beyond Irene. It seemed far too old-fashioned to be practical. Why not just rent out a floor of an office block like most GP's instead of working below where you live? Or was he living above where he worked? Irene supposed it made the commute easier, but it also made it very easy for hypochondriacal patients to track you down at one in the morning and force you to look at their boil.

As Irene strode through the doorway she was immediately set upon by a grey haired man wheedling a disposable coffee cup with a scary lack of precision.

''Cuse me Miss, but if you have an appointment you're going to have to re-book. If you haven't noticed we're in the middle...'

'Gov.' Sergeant Donovan stepped beside the man. 'This is the Forensic Pathologist Miss Hooper is friends with. The one I mentioned before.'

'Who? Oh.' the coffee man had the decency to look embarrassed. 'Sorry 'bout that. We've had four people stroll under the tape already this morning. Some people think that having the corns on their feet filed is more important than a police investigation.' He held out his hand. 'DI Lestrade.'

Irene took his hand and shook it. She had heard about Lestrade from both Molly and Sherlock. From Molly, Irene had learnt about his marital difficulties and his troubles since Sherlock's "death". From Sherlock she had learnt that he was the least incompetent and least irritating officer at Scotland Yard (which from Sherlock was pretty high praise). Both had failed to mention his attractive dark eyes and excellent smile. And they were meant to be observant.

'Pleasure to meet you DI Lestrade. Your reputation precedes you.'

Lestrade's smile dropped slightly. Obviously his reputation wasn't what it had been back when he had Sherlock clearing cases for him. 'Good things I hope.' he said warily.

'Nothing but. Molly said over the phone that you wanted some assistance.'

'Oh yes. Hope you don't mind if we let Molly walk you through what we want. We still have to interview the receptionist.'

'By all means. More than happy to help. That is, if I can.'

'Oh don't worry.' Sergeant Donovan took a step to the side and indicated where Irene was meant to go. 'It will be great having help from someone with actual professional expertise for a change.'

Irene didn't miss the lighting glare that shot between Donovan and Lestrade.

_Sally Donovan - Sergeant - Molly said Lestrade's "right-hand man" - Position of trust - Female and black in a very white very male dominated profession - Would have had to have struggled against cat calls and racist slurs - Tough - Would have to be to get by - But would have to be smart too - Would have learn to tow the line - Would have learnt to pick her battles to not upset the boys club too much - Lestrade is her superior - Why would she take pot-shots at him in front of a stranger? - Why risk pissing him off? - Does Donovan think that Lestrade won't do anything about her undermining his authority? - Does she not care if he does? - Recent falling out? - Loss of respect? - "Great having help from someone with actual professional experience for a change" - Who was Lestrade getting help from before? - Someone not in the force? - Someone without official qualifications - Would be a risk - hiring someone with no official background in police work - High Likelihood of being a liability in court - Would have to be good enough for Lestrade to take that chance..._

_-Sherlock - Always bloody Sherlock -_

_-Lestrade is the superior officer - Would have been his choice to have Sherlock investigate with his team - Sherlock calls Scotland yard "London's largest simpletons club" - Sherlock doesn't mind saying to people's faces that he knows they are chronic masturbators - Sherlock "died" in disgrace and made the London Metropolitan Police Force a laughing stock - Sherlock was probably the world's biggest pain in the arse to work with when he was alive - But now he's dead, he has ruined every case he was connect with - Dozens of convictions being overturned - hundreds of hours of police work wasted - and Lestrade was the one that brought him on - Not only ruining his reputation but his whole teams - one rotten apple spoiling the lot - Tainted by association - Donovan would have lost any chance of promotion she had before - Chance of a transfer? - Unlikely - No one would be willing to take on one of Lestrade's team - Donovan's stuck in a rut because of Lestrade's choice - Trapped inside the Met's most undesirable unit all because a dead guy she probably hated had ruined their reputation-_

Irene figured she would be angry too, under the same circumstances.

But Lestrade was clearly just as bitter towards Donovan. Why? Was it just the fact Donovan was having a go at him in public for undermining his authority or was it something more?

Irene would have to ask Molly for more background. She had never worked in an office-type job before, and was looking forward to having some scandalous gossip to tell around the water-cooler.

Donovan led Irene past the reception desk and into what looked like a tea room. Inside was Molly wearing a cute, little, white lab coat and looking very seriously at the box Irene had held only that morning. It was on the tea-room table next to the coffee and the sugar, which made Irene feel a little uncomfortable. The sergeant tapped on the wall inside the doorway.

'Knock knock. I’ve got someone here to see you.'

The glower that Molly thrust at Irene put Lestrade and Donovan's to shame. Sally - being a professional investigator - picked up on it immediately.

'...and I think I'll leave you to it.' she nodded at Irene. 'Doctor.'

'Sergeant.'

Sally retreated. Molly started furiously scribbling on her clip-board.

‘Doctor Lider.’

Irene moved towards Molly, her voice placating.

‘Come on, honey. Please don’t be like that. I only came to help.’

Molly didn’t look up. ‘You came because you knew it would annoy you-know-who.’

‘That too.’

‘And because you have a pathological need to take unnecessary risks because that’s how you get your kicks.’

‘Fine, so there are many reasons. I am a complicated individual with a gift for multitasking.’

‘And poor impulse control. It’s staggering that you’ve only managed to die twice.’

Irene slapped her hand down on Molly’s clipboard. ‘Molly.’ She whispered ‘Look at me.’

It was an order. Irene had little opportunity to issue them nowadays, but she didn’t realise how much she missed it until Molly peered up at her. The pathologist face was set, determined to be disapproving, but Irene knew Little Miss Hooper could never seem to refuse a direct order from anyone, least of all her. It’s something Irene felt that she would eventually have to weed out of Molly – but she wasn’t above using it to her advantage.

‘You and I both know that there is more to this than meets the eye; mostly because we’re privy to a little more information than we should be. Unless you want to explain to that swarve Detective Inspector that this dead man’s hand was sent from another dead man via a dead woman, you’re going to have to work out what exactly “Auguste” has going on. Now you can either try to do that by yourself, or you can take up my generous offer to assist you. It’s entirely your choice, honey.’

Molly pursed her lips. ‘You say it’s my choice but we both know that I don’t have one, do I?’

Irene took her hand off the clip-board smiled. ‘You’re as clever as ever, Molly dear. So can I see the mysterious hand?’

‘Okay, but you know that’s not why they called you, right?’

‘Oh, then why did they?’

‘Didn’t Sally tell you?’

‘She said you would.’

Molly rolled her eyes. ‘You need to talk to Percy. They want to know why he was targeted. Was it something he did or didn’t do that pissed off the hand-sender; whoever that could possibly be. Did “my cousin” tell you anything?’

‘Your cousin is more obtuse than normal, and that’s saying something. I did however do a bit of research on your old friend…’

‘College. I’d doubt he’d remember me.’

Irene couldn’t help but notice how quickly the words had tumbled out of Molly’s mouth. She crossed her arms. ‘Molly. Did you have a crush on Percy Trevelyan?’

Molly pulled the clip-board to her chest, like she was trying to hide behind it. ‘What? No! No it’s just… He was very clever. I admired that about him. I always… admire… clever people.’

‘Yes. “Admire”. Is that what the kids are calling it nowdays?’

‘Okay. Fine. I was attracted to him. A bit. A tiny itsy-bitsy bit. It’s all gone now.’

‘It’s okay, honey. You don’t need to explain. I get it. Brainy is the new sexy.’

‘Irene, please don’t embarrass me over a guy who I had a thing for in uni.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it dear.’ Irene said, though for some odd reason she felt like she could taste something bitter in the back of her throat. ‘I won’t breathe a word.’

‘Thanks.’ Molly . ‘Hand first?’

‘If you would be so kind.’

Molly put down the clip-board and opened the box. Inside was a hand. Irene looked at it.

‘This feels vaguely anti-climatic.’

‘I know.’ said Molly. ‘It would have been exciting if you were the person who opened it this morning.’

‘Yes but I’m not.’ Irene sighed. ‘I knew when I first got the package I should have peeked inside. It would have been a surprise then.’

‘I’m sorry the severed hand isn’t meeting your expectations.’ Irene would never know how Molly managed to say that sentence without a hint of sarcasm.

‘It’s alright. They were probably too high anyway. Do you have to take it back to the lab?’

‘Yes. I’m just waiting for an eski. I’m not too worried though. It’s been preserved.’

‘What, you mean, embalmed?’

‘Not quite.’ Molly pulled on a pair of gloves. ‘Check this out.’ Molly flipped over the hand and Irene shrunk back and swore.

‘Shit! Molly! Where’s the skin?’

The underside of the hand had its skin peeled away, revealing bone, tendons and muscle to the open air. It made the hand look, for lack of a better term, naked. Molly seemed completely unaware of Irene’s discomfort towards the flayed human appendage, but Irene knew better. This was her little form of revenge. Molly went into detail, smiling an innocent smile and holding the hand under Irene’s nose.

‘Embalming is when we pump embalming fluid - formaldehyde, methanol, stuff like that – and pump it through the body, normally through the arteries and then is drained out. We can then store them for months at room temperature.’

‘Great.’ Irene tried to look anywhere but at the hand. ‘Fantastic.’

‘But this hand hasn’t been embalmed. Listen.’ Molly tapped the hand. It made a sound that was almost the opposite of tapping on skin. It sounded… hard. Like someone tapping on a counter top or a window. ‘It’s been plastinated.’

‘Plastinated? Like those gory German art exhibitions.’

‘The very same. All the water and fat is replaced by a resin compound and it becomes ridged. They’re no good for students to dissect or anything, but they’re great for display purposes and they never decay. You can just pull it out in class and hand it around to the students. An exact representation of what they’ll be working on once they get into the field and no sterile climate needed.’

‘Then why are you using gloves and an eski?’

Molly put the hand back in its box. ‘This is a crime scene. Don’t want to contaminate the evidence.’

Irene chanced a look down at the hand. It wasn’t as bad looking at it the second time. It was just so hard to reconcile that the object in the box used to be attracted to a real person. ‘So you think it could be a med student pulling a prank or something.’

‘I don’t think so. London universities only started using plastinated bodies in 2008 and they cost an arm and a leg.’

‘Pun indented?’

 Molly realised what she’d said. ‘No. Damn. I wish it was. I never get to do those CSI quips in real life. Anyway there is no way any of these specimens would disappear from a medical department without them calling the police straight away. There are pranks and then there’s beating your university career to death with a stick.’

‘So why hasn’t anyone called contacted your DI friend and told them that a hand is missing. Someone must be looking for it.’

‘I have no idea. Hopefully we’ll be able to get a DNA sample, but honestly I’m not sure how that would work with a plastinated body part.’

‘You’ll figure it out, I’m sure. So now that I have been thoroughly revolted by the human anatomy, I should go have a chat with your old boyfriend.’ Irene pointed at the door that lead out of the tea-room and down a hallway. ‘Is he through there?’

‘He’s not…’

‘Yes yes. Denial of obvious desire, and all that. Down the hall?’

Molly rubbed her forehead with her arm, trying to keep her gloves from getting contaminated. ‘I knew I should have pretended that you weren’t answering your phone.’

‘I’ve said it repeatedly Molly, my dear.’ Irene called as she trotted down the hallway. ‘Too honest for your own good.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I'd like to give props to wellingtongoose for a great meta that I am basing my characterisation of Sally Donovan. Read it here -> http://wellingtongoose.tumblr.com/post/36223469151/nuclear-melt-down-at-the-met-part-2 . Also I hope that Irene's "deductions" (which are far more like inductive reasoning than deductive reasoning) aren't too farfetched.


End file.
